This is my Creed
by PlushVocalist
Summary: Jack the Ripper. Perhaps in a different light than most view him, or maybe it's exactly the way you pictured him. Either way, this is my idea of the fearsome serial killer...Hope you enjoy.


_A/N: I feel as though Jack and I have a lot in common. So I decided to do a little "somethin' somethin'" for him. I definitely want to know what you think! So don't forget to comment. Tell me what you like. Tell me what you don't like. Tell me what I can do better, etc. Because writing is supposed to be enjoyable for both the reader and the writer, right? Also, this content may be disturbing to some viewers, so viewer discretion is advised (It only gets worse. Trust me). Anywho, enjoy! And remember that I don't own Jack the Ripper or any other character from the Assassin Creed franchise._

Chapter 1: Exposed

 _Arms_. Arms were reaching out to him. Like a blanket, they swaddled his form. Warm and nurturing. So pretty and porcelain. A comfort amidst the endless sea of darkness he was floating within. Jack groaned softly, nestling into the embrace. It felt like home, and he basked in the security.

" _Wake up Jack….wake up.._."

Jack squeezed his eyes shut tighter. Hopefully the voice would go away if he ignored it. He was safe, couldn't it see? He didn't want to wake; he wanted to drift in the darkness, in these beautiful womanly arms.

" _Wake up Jack! Wake up!_ "

' _No! Stop! Leave me alone!_ ' He growled in response. Gritting his teeth, he tried to force the voice from his consciousness. But to no avail. When he clamped hands over his ears, the words seeped between the slits of his fingers. When he tried to drown the voice out with his screams, sound locked itself in his throat.

 _But the arms!_ Surely the loving arms that held him would come to his rescue? Surely he had nothing to fear. They were comforting him….cuddling him….. _choking_ him! His eyes popped open in a flash. The darkness greeted him. From its belly the delicate arms bloomed – detached as they were from their rightful human body – they simply ended at the shoulders: no torso, no body, and no consolation.

Like a cobra latching onto its prey, they encircled him. Jack choked as breath was pushed from his lungs. He kicked his legs wildly, his body jerked. The arms were unrelenting, crushing him in a vise-like grip. And then suddenly, the arms were no longer arms, but _hands_. _Feminine_ hands. A plethora of hands.

 _Hands!_

 _Hands everywhere!_

They were spiders, skittering over the expanse of his body. His flesh crawled where their newfound fingers traced lines up his spinal cord. He was naked, he realized, once their nails bit into his thighs, legs, groin, and stomach – _everywhere!_ – And began to do the unthinkable: peeling the very flesh from his bones…

It sounded like Velcro being ripped apart. A horrible wrenching sound in his ears, like bark torn savagely off a tree. They continued, slashing off sheet after sheet of his skin. Blood gushed out of his countless wounds, streaming tiny crimson rivers onto the flawless hands prancing all over his body. Jack howled until his throat was hoarse. His body was no longer distinguishable as human, just a tattered lump of blood and muscle and excruciating agony. 'My skin…give me back my skin!' He screamed into the void.

" _WAKE UP!"_

Jack bolted upright. Breath poured into his lungs and he gulped it down hungrily, his lungs burning as they became filled with the sweet air. Chilly sweat clamored down his skin, eliciting a brief shiver from the shell-shocked male. His knuckles ached, and he realized that he had been clutching his bedsheets for dear life. Peeling his trembling fingers free from the fabric, he ran the thick hands over his face, only mildly surprised to find the skin damp. He had been crying in his sleep again.

Wordlessly, he wiped the moisture onto the bedcovers and glanced about the room. It was a cramped simple thing – his bed took up more than half of it. Other than a puny nightstand and mirror, no other furniture occupied the room. A small window lay to his right and would have provided a decent view of Whitechapel: dazzling and picturesque under the palette of a scorching sunset, had it not been boarded up. The bedroom door was likewise barricaded.

Jack rose from the bed, making his way expertly through the darkness to the door.

He had to check...he had to be sure.

He trailed fingers over the rugged wood he had spent hours nailing into the doorway. He gripped it. Tugged. The wood didn't budge; Jack breathed out a sigh of relief, his forehead bumping the fibrous material.

' _They can't get in…They won't get me._ ' A shudder tumbled down his spine as remnants of his dream popped into his head.

' _Safe…_ ' Dreamy words floated through his skull.

"Yes, Mother. We're safe." He breathed. Yes, _he_ was safe, as he had been saved that fateful day. But his mother…his mother had suffered a tragic fate. The visions came back, flooding his senses.

Blood. He could smell blood. _His mother's blood_.

Its coppery scent flooded his nostrils, he could feel it splattering over his flesh, over his clothes…still warm from its owner's slashed throat. _"Go to Jacob! Run, Jack!"_ She had cried out, hope for his survival shining in her eyes. The words echoed in his head, over and over, as they had for so many years. She was still keeping him safe; her voice was constantly in his conscience, directing his every move and decision. For when his mother was slain, she did not die, but transformed into an Angel - _his_ guardian Angel.

' _They'll find us…They'll find us. Must..kill. Kill her…Kill her!'_

Her words escaped from his head and warped around the room: climbing the walls, drifting beneath his bed, skating over the boarded window, before disappearing into a wisp of smoke.

Jack's lips trembled before a manic grin split his face nearly in half. His pulse revved up. Adrenaline flowed like blood through his veins. When he blinked, the words flashed on the walls as bright as neon signs: KILL HER. Oh, the Hunt! An activity he _yearned_ for!

Mother was trying to warn him.

And her message was clear: his target was on the move. He had to act soon. Jack turned away from the fortified door and made a beeline for the nightstand. All of his earlier skittishness seemingly vanished as he yanked open the drawers, pulled out his gloves and spread his wide array of weaponry over the nightstand's face.

"Now, which of you beauties wants to help slay a pretty woman, eh?" He crooned as he thumbed through his collection of kukris. Each had their own story, their own beginning with Jack the Ripper. But – ah! – this one would surely do the trick! He grinned at the chosen kukri, and it grinned right back, reflecting the excited image of its owner. Its edges were jagged teeth – eager to chew through flesh and bone, its blade wickedly curved…Absolute perfection.

Jack quickly stowed it away and moved to stand before the mirror.

Dark circles hugged the weary skin around his eyes. His blonde hair was unkempt and still slightly damp from perspiration – darker than he remembered too. Absently, he pushed the short golden locks back into place. His skin was fair, if a little sallow – a consequence of his hermit-like habits as well as his unusual nocturnal work schedule. Jack studied himself; impassive. All that remained the same from his boyish years was his eyes: sharp, perceptive, and a startlingly empty hue of gray – and for a split second, he almost saw the frightened youth he used to be, staring poker-faced into the mirror as a number of nurses disrobed him of his clothes in preparation for the doctor's "procedures."

Jack squeezed his eyes closed until they burned. His fingers balled into tight fists, the nails biting into his palms. _Leather straps_ _closed around his wrists, snapped over his ankles. His arms were stretched out on either side of his body: Innocence crucified at the hands of the Corrupted._

His teeth grinded together; pressure rose like smoke to his head. _He laid motionless on the doctor's examining the table; the chill from the metal clung to him like a second skin, making gooseflesh spread over his body like a disease. His heart was a jackhammer, threatening to break free from his chest. Yet, he kept his face neutral…he was determined to show no fear._

Wide crazed eyes swiveled back to the mirror. He could see that his fists were shaking, and his knuckles drained of all their color. _The nurses stared down at his humiliated exposed body – their faces as expressionless as the walls surrounding them. They felt no pity. To them, he was just another broken-minded individual._ _And to Jack, they weren't even human – merely machines – utterly mechanical. The door creaked. Heavy footsteps bounced up to his ears as the doctor stepped into his room. Looking up from his chart, he flashed a pleasant smile to the stern-faced nurses and made a quick gesture with his head towards the door. They were dismissed. "So…Jack, is it?" The doctor smiled gently, pulling up a seat to the tethered boy beside him. "That's a beautiful name. My name is Doctor Archer," his large hand came to rest on Jack's thigh before beginning its slow ascent upward, "I'm going to take good care of you…"_

The piercing sound of shattering glass broke through the flashback. Jack stood, doe-eyed and wheezing. His knuckles were embedded into what had once been his nightstand's mirror. His fist had smashed it, and now broken shards of glass clinked as they fell like rain onto the dresser below. His blood followed suit, weeping quietly from his new lacerations that decorated his hand. He could barely feel pain's sting. His mind was elsewhere, hovering on the borders of past and present. Even as his bloodied hands quaked, he tugged on his black gloves, shrugged on his coat, donned on his hand-stitched mask, and promptly applied his top hat to his attire.

The creature glaring at him from the shattered mirror pieces wasn't the sickly blonde-haired man with the sunken eyes, nor was it the helpless child at the mercy of society. This creature held death in its hues: ashen and void of color, they swore a merciless end. The Ripper turned on his heel, his huge hands closing around the wood barricading the door before wrenching it off – board by board. Now free from restraint, the door slid open, revealing the dreary corridor on the other side. Jack paused, one hand on the door frame.

' _Safe…'_ The Angel sighed into his ears. A shiver sped down Jack's spine. His head tipped backwards, his eyes slid closed. He drank in the single word with a dire thirst. It was exactly what he had needed to hear. "Yes, Mother. We are safe." Came his mumbled reply. Like a thief in the night, he slinked into the shadows, his form vanishing altogether in the inky emptiness.


End file.
